I composed this poem a few years ago about my undiagnosed disorder, it isn’t actually that bad or at least I don’t think so. Here’s how I feel:

Some find it strange

That I choose to arrange

An array of bottles

With precisionary accuracy

Though it’s a decision that taxes me

But what they lack to see

Is that this disease

I’m set to appease

By my Feng Shui decrees

Is simply defined OCD.

However, it’s more than that to me.

An Urge I cannot purge

Because it surges

And quivers my nerves

To irate-ness

Correcting the mess

before me.

If it’s obsessively disorderly,

I’m compelled to re-order it,

On a cusp & border

I feel restricted- commanding

My thoughts constricted

I can’t pipe no wind

The noose too tight

To breathe

My tactical placement,

To you an abasement

To me a release.


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